


Back of My Bones

by SenkoWakimarin



Category: Cable and Deadpool
Genre: Jokes, M/M, Massage, Rated T for There is No Foot Stuff, Sweet, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:47:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenkoWakimarin/pseuds/SenkoWakimarin
Summary: Wade's in pain, so Nate helps.
Relationships: Nathan Summers/Wade Wilson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 139





	Back of My Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iiintangible](https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiintangible/gifts), [Quakey (Quak3y)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quak3y/gifts).



Pain had been a part of Wade's life for just about as long as he could remember. Which didn't always mean much, given that there was plenty of his own personal history he either didn't care to recall or simply couldn't remember, but it's key to understanding why he leaned so quickly and so easily into the mentality of allowing grievous bodily injury to occur if it meant simplifying things to get what or where he wanted.

Just because he could heal from damn near anything didn't mean the injury didn't hurt -- it usually did, and quite badly. It was just, well, he'd heal quickly, so why not jump from a plane without a parachute, or run through fire if it got him where he needed to go faster? He's going to be in pain regardless -- the pain is omnipresent. The pain is always there, in some capacity.

Some days, though, he hurts more than others. Most days he can push past it; it's a nagging ache, persistent but by no means debilitating. Getting himself injured actually helps, a more focused sort of pain that's easier to process, localized and with a visible cause. Waking up with all his muscles cramped and sore, bones stuffed with glass and joints packed with gravel, that kind of pain took over the entire body and made it hard to focus on anything.

Days like that are rare, and when he can, he spends them in bed. Usually the pain passes on its own, whatever it is that's fucking with him shifting out of circulation like the rest of the tumors and lesions. He's proven on multiple occasions that he can hold a piss for days if need be, and honestly, in his humble opinion, if an adult man riddled with as much cancer as he's got pisses his own bed once in a great while, well, that's just about fair. He's changing his own sheets, after all.

"You're being very quiet."

This is not his bed, however. Wade can deduce that without opening his eyes. It not smelling like a dumpster that's both very wet and somehow on fire goes a long way towards that, but mostly it's the heavy weight of his good friend and sometimes fuck buddy sitting beside him.

Nate never stays over at Wade's apartment.

The smell might be a reason for that, thinking about it now.

"I know you're not asleep.You talk in your sleep too."

Thing about Nathan is that he's a fucking pest when he decides to get worried. When Wade cracks an eye open, he can see Nate sitting there, turned toward him, brows drawn all tight together, but not angry-like. Concerned. 

Oy.

"M' fine," he manages, and then winces. His throat hurts too. One of those days, whole body livid with it. He knows he should sit up, push it all down, at least make like it's no big deal until he can get to his own place and collapse, but it's hard. That's one of the things he's never gotten a grasp on; extensive, long-lasting pain is exhausting. Wade's slept for twenty-eight straight hours after bad injuries; days when his body is howling with pain just because, special treat from Existence, he usually drifts in and out most of a day, until whatever it is passes.

Nathan, of course, isn't used to Wade like this. Maybe he would be if he was less offended by terrible smells and Wade's refusal to clean, but given that he doesn't have the time to waste hanging out with Wade on the regular, he doesn't see Wade's bad days. Like everyone else, he sees what Wade's willing to let him see.

Except Nate also calls him out of the blue, or shows up to ask for help or just because he wants to and finds the time. Nate takes him to bed, not as a dare or a challenge or to settle a debt, certainly not for cash, and so he's seen a lot more of Wade than most.

Because Wade lets him. That's very important in this definitely-not-romantic relationship, because Wade is a very tough manly sort of man and he has complete control over the parts of himself he lets anyone see. 

It's just easier to show some of the more personal stuff to Nate. Because he's there. A lot. 

"You don't  _ look  _ fine," Nate says gently, running a hand gently along the curve of Wade's shoulder. Before Wade can crack any kind of 'what else is new' style jokes, Nate goes ahead and adds, "You look like you're in pain. Pretty badly, given your baseline."

And that’s… well, that’s a little different, isn’t it? People don’t generally worry too much about Wade’s comfort levels, his tolerance for pain being so famously high and all. He’s cultivated that image, been pretty goddamn careful about it, making even genuine complaints about how bad some things hurt into jokes. People get weird about chronic pain and people are weird enough about Wade as it is. 

“It’s not great,” he hazards, because while he knows there’s not much point in outright lying to Nate, the last thing he needs is Nate deciding he needs help. “Just some, uh, tension. Muscle stuff. It happens.”

Most of Nate’s features smooth out when Wade opens both eyes, though that persistent crease between his brows remains as he watches his thumb push slow circles along the ridge of Wade’s collarbone. He hums one of his infuriating little considering hums, this particular one translating as, ‘I think you’re hiding something but I’ve decided that the polite thing is not to call your bullshit’. Wade hates when Nate gets in these lofty, high handed moods. Either call Wade out or shut up.

When he tries to sit up, Nate pushes gently against his efforts, and Wade can’t quite keep himself from wincing. Immediately, even as he relaxes back against the mattress with a little huff of annoyance, Nathan snatches his hand back like he’s been burnt, apologizing.

Very fucking weird, given that Nate’s blown his brains out with casual indifference on countless occasions. Hell, the last time wasn’t even that long ago; they’d been fighting each other way longer than they’ve been doing this friends with benefits thing.

Annoyed and impulsive, Wade grabs Nate by the wrist and drags his hand back to his shoulder, right about where it had been, and if nothing else, Nathan can be relied upon to take a hint. He’s gentle, though, as he starts rubbing little circles against Wade’s clavicle again. 

Silence for a few gross minutes, and then Nate says, all quiet and careful, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Wade has to sigh. There's not a whole lot else to do when the only real options otherwise would be to pick a fight or force himself to get up, and while he's never had much of a problem picking a fight with Nathan (especially when he's being a fucking idiot), this bed is extremely comfortable, and he doesn't much want to move after all.

"It wasn't you," he lies, closing his eyes and trying to relax. It doesn't do a whole ton for the tightening ache in most of the muscle groups comprising his limbs, but he's good enough at pretending that he's pretty sure he can trick Nathan into thinking he's fine. "It's just, uh. You ever get a Charlie horse?"

He doesn't need his eyes open to know the face Nate's making; Wade can tell Nate's puzzling his way through the colloquialism through whatever telepathic means he's using these days just by the length of silence between Wade asking and his little acquiescing hum.

Kinda cute, the way he won't just ask for clarification. Wade's always liked that stubborn, do it himself streak Nate has, even when it came to bear in such a way that it ended up getting Wade hurt. 

"Okay, so it's like that except my whole body. Everything's all crunched up and too-tight and moving hurts."

Another low hum, Nate's big warm hand smoothing over Wade's skin. It feels gross even to Wade, the gentle pressure gliding over flesh so uneven it makes a sound more like Nathan's petting over coarse fabric than skin. "I have a very good masseuse I could --"

Wade makes a face without meaning to let himself. They've had exactly one conversation about Wade's disgusting skin since the whole One World Church fuckaroo, and Wade's carefully resisted any attempt to allow that conversation to happen a second time. He doesn't like the insecurity even in the privacy of his own fucking head, and he sure as hell doesn't like it out in the open where someone can use it against him. 

Or worse. Feel bad about it. 

Lies are all well and good when Wade's the one telling them, but he hates being lied to, and Nathan is a shitty fucking liar when it comes to the sort of lies meant to spare other people's feelings.

"I don't -- people get real weird about this shit, okay," he says, eyes still closed as he raises one hand to gesture at the rest of him, naked in Nathan's bed. "The future may be edified enough that you don't give a shit, but this is a barf-fest for anyone native to now, okay? Even if I used my inducer, anyone touching is going to feel it, and then it turns into twenty questions about how contagious I am and why I was trying to hide it."

He thinks he succeeds in making it sound like he doesn't really care that much, like it's just a minor sort of annoyance to him. That's how it should be, he thinks; it's been fucking years since he looked like anything anyone else would  _ want  _ to touch, Nathan's weird future sensibilities notwithstanding. He shouldn't be bitter about it, not at this point, not when the whole rest of the world is right to be grossed out by it.

"My staff is very professional," Nathan says, and Wade can tell, choice of words and the careful pacing of them, that Nate thinks Wade's exaggerating. He also probably thinks this is a worthwhile sort of cause to push, because one of the other traits Wade's accidentally found himself very... fond of with Nate is the way Nate decides to just take care of other people. 

It's not something Wade's had much experience with, being taken care of.

"It's not about being professional, it’s --”

"She is discrete, she's used to working around the TO, and she's very, very good," Nathan pushes, and Wade's very tempted to force himself out of bed just because there's no way, in the face of Nate's careful patience and general caring, that he can get out of this without showing way more weakness than he is comfortable with or starting a fight. Maybe both. "Wade, I wouldn't offer a solution if I thought it would just make you feel worse. Your skin isn't --"

Wade's eyes are immediately open, glaring at the big idiot, daring him to finish that thought. Wade  _ hates  _ being lied to, hates that kind of sugar-coating bullshit, hates people saying bullshit in lieu of an uncomfortable, cruel but plain truth. 

Nathan meets his eyes evenly, the glow from the dud left dimmed down to the point that it's no longer painful to look through. Like this, soft morning light and gentle hand still pressing into Wade's shoulder, Nate looks tender in a way that's incongruous with the usual way of things between them. "Your skin isn't some contagious... THING other people should be scared of," Nate says gently, "Anyone medically trained can tell that at a glance, especially someone who's been working on me this long. I promise, Wade, I wouldn't make the suggestion if I didn't think it would help."

All stated so calmly, so gently. It makes Wade's stomach hurt, a weird, fluttery sensation he doesn't know how to label. He feels a little like a dick for being so ready to be pissed off about it -- for  _ still  _ kind of wanting to be pissed off about it. The thing is, Nathan's probably telling the truth there, and Wade  _ has  _ met a few people who pushed past the initial disgust factor, processed that he wasn't a disease vector, and got over appearances. It  _ did  _ happen, it was possible, it just wasn't common.

He'd never met anyone who didn't hesitate at first. Absolutely everyone seeing him the first time needed a bit to get over the creepy-crawly 'what if my skin did that' sympathetic response. Even Nate had, just for a second, paused the first time they decided to get lewd after a rough job. 

It's not enjoyable, it's not a process Wade thinks anyone ever grows to like going through, or should be expected to. For at least a few seconds, at a minimum, he's not a person, he's just a potential health risk. A hazard. He supposes he could manage meeting some new chick if he packed himself in the Deadpool suit, but the idea of going through the effort just to lay back on the bed and let a stranger rub him down -- and the suit wouldn't cover  _ all  _ the lumps and bumps anyway, so she'd probably still get weird about it...

"I just don't want to get dressed, and I don't want some stranger looking at me naked when I feel like this," Wade finally grumbles, closing his eyes and turning his head again, hopefully presenting clear enough body language to show how very done he is with this conversation. "Just lemme stay here. Your bed 's nicer than mine, and I can stay outta your hair if I'm sleeping, so you can run off and get all your Jesus-y shit taken care of."

Honestly, he'd think Nate would jump on that. Not exactly a promise not to fuck with whatever plans he's got for the day, but enough of one to expect to be able to get through the day without annoying unkillable mercenaries under foot. In Nate's place, Wade would  _ totally  _ grab that offer. 

Instead, for the third time since Nate woke up, Wade gets that very faint, considering little hum from Nathan. It's a sound that's as carefully neutral as anything Wade's ever heard, and Nate's tone is just a shade too casual to be completely genuine when he says, "Suppose I don't have any Jesus-y shit to take care of today?"

A highly unlikely circumstance, but that IS something to consider, isn't it? So tantalizing that Wade's initial inclination is to completely disregard the idea. No way Nate wants to stick around and rub Wade down by hand himself. That's a little too much of a reach, even for Wade's self-indulgent, hedonistic imagination, except that, when he twists the idea around in his head a little, it actually sort of fits with Nate's general modus operandi. 

Nate says stupid, almost romantic things about how strong Wade is, how amazing his healing factor is, how much he likes Wade's body -- he says these things with no mention of his fucked up skin but doesn't hesitate to touch that skin, so somehow it never feels like he's pretending, either. Wade always makes fun of him for that shit, but he wonders, a little, sometimes, if Nate talks around how fucked up Wade looks not because he's afraid of hurting Wade's feelings but because he knows Wade wouldn't trust anyone saying anything that  _ didn’t  _ hurt his feelings where his appearance is concerned. 

It's not the best sweet talking Wade's ever been put on the receiving end of, but it's by far the most sincere and possibly the most calculatedly considerate. Nathan is just as good at fucking shit up between them as he is actually fucking, but almost in spite of himself Wade's gotten to know his Tall, Not-Particularly-Dark, and Grim buddy well enough to be able to tell that Nate's not really  _ lying  _ when he says those sweet things. Or at least, Nate doesn't  _ think  _ he's lying. 

Point is, Nate's an awkward talker when his dick is hard, and he'd never be able to maintain that lie if he tried while they were in the middle of dicking down.

So maybe that lurch of want isn't so misplaced after all. Maybe Nate wants to play hooky and giving Wade a nice massage is a desperate excuse to get away with doing that. Sounds like bad fiction, but then again, so does at least ninety percent of the shit they'd had to go through together to get here in the first place.

"Whoever's writing your lines needs a reality check," Wade says, frowning as he gives the idea another quick spin, looking for the obvious joke or the place where, when he gives in to the thing that sounds too good to be real, everything will suddenly turn to ash. As is often the issue with nice things offered to him by Nathan, Wade can't immediately see the threat, and the idea of a few extra minutes with Nate just focused on him, doting on him with attention nowhere else, is really too good to pass up on. "You wanna skip catechism, I'm happy to be the excuse. I'm not putting clothes on for you, though."

"I wouldn't expect you to," Nate says easily, hand rubbing sweetly over Wade's shoulder and then gently prying him up, trying to shove him over. "Get on your stomach to start. Try to relax as much as you can, be as comfortable as possible."

Really, Wade expects Nate to cry off. He can pin the sex and how it keeps happening on a lot of things -- frustration, some kind of point Nathan thinks he's proving, a game of chicken that's gotten really, really out of hand -- but it's harder to figure out Nate's motivation for wanting to touch Wade's bare skin for an extended period of time, by choice, to no immediate satisfaction on his part. Nate's never hesitated to state plain when he wanted to fuck, so it seems far fetched that this is supposed to be a way of slipping into more of that; it becomes outright impossible to believe that's the angle when Nate settles on his knees and starts rubbing Wade's neck in the least sexy way possible.

"This is only going to work if I do it right, so I'm trusting you to tell me if I do anything that hurts, or if the pressure is too much," Nathan says, and Wade knows he's going to be thinking about that for a long time. Thinking about Nathan wanting to help him, thinking about Nathan saying he  _ trusted  _ Wade. "Tell me if it's too light, too. I'm sure you've done this enough times to know the drill."

It's delivered flat, but Wade knows Nate's sense of humor well enough to figure that's probably a jab. It's not a cruel one, but why else say something like that? It's the kind of comment that Wade might bristle at another time, the sort of backhanded way of making him admit he's  _ not  _ had scores of people lining up to get handsy with him, not for years, and even then  _ massage  _ might have been a euphemism used once or twice, but it was just that -- a  _ euphemism _ . 

The pressure on the back of his neck though, while less than sexy, is still warm and much too nice for him to get all pissy over one of Nate's shitty stabs at humor. Wriggling a little to make himself comfortable, Wade grunts something appropriately noncommittal, gratified to feel Nate's hands smooth down from his neck, over the plane of his nearer shoulder. 

It’s feels surprisingly good. Wade expects it to be… nice, maybe, sure, extended physical contact with someone he likes is always going to rate in the positive spectrum. But it doesn’t get boring, really, and it  _ helps _ . It actually helps the pain, which Wade definitely did not expect.

After a few minutes of quiet, broken only by occasional groans from the bed springs as Nate shifts around on his knees, Nate leans in and kisses the back of Wade's head before sitting up. 

Wade assumes, initially, that Nate's decided he's done enough, or the moment passed, or whatever ephemeral other thing had shifted and Nate was going to leave. Honestly, Wade figures he can't really complain, because a few minutes is more than nothing and it  _ had  _ felt nice. Nate  _ is  _ a busy man, though, and it hardly makes sense for him to put off an entire day of whatever it is he's up to these days just because Wade's in a little more pain than usual.

It's easier, actually, to justify it being over quickly than to explain why the moment was allowed to occur in the first place.

Then, Wade hears the familiar sound of a plastic bottle smacking into Nate's hand. It sounds exactly like every other time Nate's gotten himself all worked up without sorting lube, or decided he was feeling too lazy to get up and find where Wade threw it last time, and cheats with the TK.

It's a sound with a certain Pavlovian response for Wade, blood heading to certain regions platonic massages shouldn't stimulate. His skin feels electric, tingling with anticipation of touch, and he shifts his knees apart without questioning it as Nate cracks the bottle open.

"Oh, that's a new scent," Wade comments, interested enough in the very expensive-smelling new fragrance to perk up, getting his elbows under him until Nate spares another bit of telekinesis to push him back flat. "Very gourmet. Totally not a Wet brand fragrance."

"It's, uh... lavender orange," Nate says, clearly reading off the bottle and not really paying much attention to conversation at all. Typical. "Figured you'd like that better than what I usually use on myself."

No time to unpack the massive log of mental images  _ that  _ line supplies; Nate's no sooner said it that he's leaning back in, putting a little more weight behind his hands as he leans in and starts working Wade's shoulders. Wade, caught off guard and mind well into the gutter, jumps at the touch.

"That's not where I expected that to be going," he says, surprised to find that he's really pretty okay with this  _ not  _ going right back into sex. His body hurts, pretty goddamn badly still, everywhere but where Nate's hands are working. It's nice to be encouraged to just... relax, enjoy the glide of Nathan's big hands, cool against his back but not cold, and the gentle, relaxing fragrance of citrus and lavender. "Very much anticipated lube used much further south. Is this a prescribed use?"

It's always gratifying to get a laugh out of Nate, especially when the guy is so sparing with his smiles half the time. Wade carries on in that vein, talking into the bedding when Nate shoves his face against the pillows and says, "It's massage  _ lotion _ , Wade,  _ lotion _ , not lube. Oath, the only scented lube I've got right now is that god awful bubblegum shit you were  _ eating  _ yesterday."

Wade had never heard of lotion specifically for massage -- oil, sure, never lotion though -- but it doesn't exactly surprise him that Nate's got some laying around. Nate's a mind-reading Boy Scout of the future, always prepared to a sometimes obnoxious degree. 

He likes the lotion though. It smells good, actually starts to smell better as it warms up between his skin and Nate's palms, and it makes the motions of Nate's hands smooth and easy in spite of the rough terrain. If Wade's body weren't being such a bitch, he'd probably be hard and Nate's not even done working his shoulders. 

It's hard to make conversation with his head down like this and the pleasant warm intimacy of laying bare on Nate's bed and being touched all over makes him, bit by bit, relax. Nathan's hands work until something that's been wound agonizingly tight between his shoulders eases and then finally lets go and Wade chokes on a noise that's somewhere between a moan and a sob.

"Good?" Nate asks, and there's something in his tone, not exactly mockery but a different, lighter kind of teasing. Given that he's fucked Wade just about every way possible, and seen him in more embarrassing situations than most, there shouldn't be any way for Nathan to make him blush anymore, but that rumbling, single word question does. All he can do is nod furiously against the pillows and turn his face against the cool bedding to hide. 

He's had what other people called massages before. Never in a professional session, always leading up to sex; he'd always preferred giving them to receiving them because there wasn't anything particularly great to him about laying face down while someone pretended to be interested in his shoulders when what they wanted was his ass or his dick. Generally speaking, it was one of the more boring forms of foreplay.

This doesn't feel like that. It's not about getting to anything else; Nathan seems prepared to kneel there beside him for an age if he has to, content to knead at the knots in Wade's body until he melts like butter all over the sheets.

Actually that sounds way grosser than how it feels. Nathan's hands drifting down his arm and working his biceps are just distractingly good, comforting in a way Wade's not really used to, and it's making him feel that same kind of floating calm as a good high would give. 

"What, uh, what kind do you use. On yourself?" he asks after a few minutes laying in the quiet and just letting himself bask in that haze. His face still feels warm from having coloured up when Nate had gotten that moan out of him, and he knows that extended silences are out of character enough from him to become their own kind of communication. The last thing he wants right now is Nate to decide to stop because he's not talking enough. 

Nate gives him a low hum, thinking, thumbs working tight circles into Wade's upper arm. Wade wonders where he learned to do this, if he just picked it up from getting massages himself or if he asked someone to teach him. It always seems like Nate's good at everything he does, like part of the nature of Nate is to just be good at everything, so it's weird to think of him having to be taught.

"I think it's eucalyptus mint," Nathan finally says, keeping his voice low and soft, another layer of intimacy. He talks like the words are just for Wade, which makes sense because they’re alone, but it’s not a ‘stay quiet so no one hears’ kind of soft-spoken, it’s a ‘I’m comfortable and so are you’ kind. Nate sounds as relaxed as Wade feels, the gravel of his voice smoothed over a little. "I know mint is part of it. It helps me feel a little more refreshed, awake, after, but it's rather... medicinal."

He doesn't say 'I know you don't like that', but he doesn't need to. There's something nice about that, but it's nice the way fear can be nice, a swooping feeling in Wade's guts like he's stepped out of a plane and into free fall. Nathan knows what likes, knows what he doesn't, and, like any good Boy Scout, had prepared for a situation where he'd give Wade a massage by having a scent on hand other than the one  _ he  _ likes. 

The amazing, utterly terrifying implication of that is that Nathan not only cared enough about Wade to consider future activities with him that weren't fighting or fucking, but also pick up on his preferences and acquire things he might like. It's a notion that makes Wade feel like he's swallowed a live eel, something squirming inside that he doesn't particularly want to label or address. 

Laid out like this, Wade's got his hands folded under his face, arms cushioning and propping him up from the pillows a little, so Nate only works his arms down to the elbows and moves on, getting up and circling the bed so he can give equal attention to both arms before working further down Wade's back. He's methodical, and it feels so good Wade catches himself starting to moan and tries to smother it unconvincingly into a cough. 

“I really should have started with your feet,” Nate says, thumbs working into the tension in Wade’s lower back. Every effort Wade had been making to keep still despite the way the firm pressure of those thumbs working over his kidneys made him want to squirm away, was given up at that, so he could twist to look over his shoulder at Nate. Except he only manages to get his elbow under him again before the TK is pushing him back down. “No, that is not an invitation for future ‘foot stuff’, why are you like this?”

Which is real funny coming from the guy who is now suddenly massaging Wade’s  _ ass _ . Wade would say exactly that, but he knows it’s just a series of muffled syllables to Nate, so he just thinks it really loud. When he gets no response he relaxes again, and lets himself settle back into that deep calm place Nate had gotten him to. 

“Next time,” Nate says, all rumbly and quiet, “we’ll do this right. I’ll put on music you like, light you some candles, have the stuff where I can reach it from the start instead of having to take my hands off you…”

Weird, having Nate be the one doing most of the talking. It’s always Wade’s voice filling the space between them, Nate humming or grunting monosyllabic replies. He never gave up that joke about liking Wade’s voice, enough so that Wade was becoming dangerously close to believing it, and he almost never told Wade to shut up unless it was important. 

Also weird, the way Nate can actually make it sound genuine, talking wistfully about doing this again in the future. Like this should be the normal between them, with candles and this lingering touch that’s not sexual or even really sensual, but still miles away from professional or clinical. He makes it sound like something he genuinely wants. Funny, since Wade’s pretty sure they haven’t even put a name on this thing they’re doing, much less decided to exchange rings. 

The relationship jokes are a lot easier to enjoy when Wade’s the one making them. At least then the little hopeful embers dancing up from the trash fire of a relationship they’ve got going here are his own fault. 

He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to laugh or what. It’s not exactly a funny-haha kind of joke, more like a ‘the vague, existential humor of the idea of them actually being in some kind of normal-adjacent relationship where they have planned intimate rituals and look forward to spending time together outside of necessity or want of an uncomplicated fuck’. Tortuous sort of comedy, that. Kind of hard to laugh at. 

Wade turns his head to the side, enjoying a breath of air not filtered through high thread-count sheets, and says, “Only if we can do foot stuff next time.”

Now that’s a joke you can laugh at. 

Or, if you’re Nate, chuckle and groan and use your telekinesis to slap your very funny bedmate upside the head in a carefully calibrated use of force that barely hurts at all, more a nudge than a strike. 

“I will  _ massage _ your feet next time,” Nate allows, paragon of patience that he is.

So of course, Wade immediately fires back, “I’ll massage your dick with my foot.” And gets another groaning laugh and one of the other pillows floated from Nate’s side of the bed and dropped over his head. 

“That’s rude, you should know that people pay big bucks for foot-to-dick lovin’,” Wade says, not bothering to try moving the pillow, enjoying the fact that Nathan hasn’t stopped the firm motions of his hands at all. “Here I am, offering to expand your sexual horizons, for  _ free _ , I might add, and you’re just constantly shutting me down. Hurtful. Cruel even.”

His breath catches then, cutting off his list of adjectives, as Nathan cups one ankle and gently lifts his foot, pulling his leg into position without hurting it at all, which Wade would have earlier said was impossible at his current pain level, and gently kisses the arch of his foot. It’s such a strange, unexpectedly tender gesture that Wade freezes up completely, breath held as Nate carefully lowers his leg back straight. 

“Sometime when you’re not in so much pain, we can discuss expanding horizons for us both,” Nate says sweetly, going right back to working the muscles of Wade’s calves in long, smooth strokes of his hand. “But I will never let you rub your feet on my dick, Wade.”

Pillow still over his face and with Nate standing at the foot of the bed anyway, Wade’s blush is entirely hidden, and he figures that’s a good thing, rolling his face back into the pillows to hide even more. How the hell that hits his ear sounding like the sweetest goddamn thing anyone’s ever said to him, he doesn’t know, but he’s sure as hell not going to admit it. Not when it’s that genuine.

Nate’s got a big enough head as it is.

“Small mind,” He accuses, but of course his words are muffled again, and all he gets in response is a hum and Nate’s hands, still on him, smoothing away hurt with steady, firm pressure.


End file.
